


Times Paul was a Mother

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Drinking, Mothering, Paul is doting, Sick Children, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every friend group has a mother. Paul is that mother until the tables are turned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: John

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thebeatleswritingnetwork.tumblr.com
> 
> "John habitually left his top shirt button undone and his tie crooked; often before they went onstage, in an almost wifely—or motherly—gesture, Paul would stand him still and do up the button for him."  
> — ‘John Lennon: The Life’ - Phillip Norman, page 299

30 minutes before the show.

Everyone was buzzing. Crew was rushing around. Press was being ushered from the room. The boys were nervous and circled together.

George was plucking at his guitar, tuning it, making sure everything was perfect. He talked excitedly with Mal about his strings and back-up guitar. Ringo was smoking, drumming on his arm, and listening to Brian. John was next to them, also listening to what their manager had to say, arms crossed, ready to make any last minute decisions. They were all focused on getting ready . But Paul stood off to the side, biting his lip and staring at John.

The older boy’s top button was undone, and his tie was loose -- as always. Paul couldn’t understand why Brian hadn’t said anything about it yet. He probably knew Paul wouldn’t let John go onstage like that and therefore, it wasn’t his problem.

Paul walked over, greeted by a polite yet genuinely eager smile from Brian and a toothy grin from John.

“I’ll be on my way,” Brian was saying. “Good luck. I’ll see you out there.”

“Bye,” Ringo called.

 “Bye!” John screamed, turning to Paul with a smug smirk.

 He raised his chin at Paul’s shake of the head. Ringo laughed behind them.

 “You’re worse than Cyn,” John said as Paul went to work.

 Paul pressed his lips together. He wiggled John’s tie tighter until it threatened to choke him.

 “Mother Paul,” Ringo said with a chuckle.

 John coughed and slapped Paul’s hands away. He sneered and tugged at his collar. “Trying to do me in, McCartney?”

 “Why don’t you dress yourself right in the first place? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about me trying to kill you,” Paul said.

 John shrugged, fixing his tie for himself. “I like it when you do it.”

 “He likes being babied,” Mal said.

 John narrowed his eyes playfully but still hostile. Mal smiled and headed for the door.

 “Good luck out there,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll come back for your instruments in a minute.”

 They muttered “thank you”s and huddled together. George put down his guitar, and Ringo put out his cigarette. Their elbows touched when they shoved their shaking hands in their pocket.

 “Ready for tonight, boys?” John asked.

 “Yeah.”

 “Yep.”

 “Sure.”

 John eyed all of them.

 “C’mon, fellas,” he shouted. “Are you ready?!”

 They all laughed.

 “Yeah!” the three chorused.

 “We’re playing in front of thousands of people tonight,” John went on. Then, his smile grew wider. “Where did we make it, fellas?”

 “To the top!”

 “And where’s that?”

 “To the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny!”

 They erupted into laughter, grabbing for each other’s arms and doubling over. Tears streamed down their rosy cheeks. Hysterics cramped their stomachs and stole their breath. Perhaps they laughed at their inside joke that only they could understand the weight of. Or the overwhelming feeling of pride swelling inside them because _they had made it._

 The stage crew watched, amused. The four boys were in their own world.

 “Let’s get going,” John said when they all caught their breath.

 They grabbed the rest of their stuff and ran from the room. Paul’s worked at John’s collar, fixing it so it laid flat like the rest of the groups’.

 “Nervous still?” John asked. “You’re too fidgety to not be nervous.”

 Paul shrugged. He let go of John’s shirt. “You?”

 John nodded. Paul put an arm around his shoulder.

 “We’ll do fine. We always do.”

 “I might throw up,” John said once they reached the end of the first hall. They stopped. George and Ringo continued through the doors. “I can’t even see the bleeding audience, and I might throw up on all of them.”

 “I promise you you won’t.”

 “How?”

 “You’re John Lennon. You won’t. If we can make it this big, fate isn’t going to make you throw up on stage… Besides, the girls might like it.”

 John scoffed. “They’d probably never wash it off.”

 “Now, come on.” Paul ran his fingers along John’s shirt collar once more. “Get it together. We’ll do great.”

 John smirked. “Let’s catch up with Ringo and George.”

 They burst through the doors. Paul’s hands went to buttoning John’s shirt cuffs.


	2. Part 2: George

The fans were piled against the police barricade. They tried pushing through, just to reach for their favorite band. Just to touch their idols.

The boys smiled at the young girls. They were exhausted, but they could always put on a happy face to encourage the girls. Mal pushed them forward to keep up with the police escort.

“Paul!”

“Ringo!”

“John!

"George!”

“Please… please…”

Whatever the girls were begging for, they couldn’t hear. They inched their way towards the car. It was nothing new.

The screams were nearly deafening. George focused on how close they seemed to the limo and the hand on his back that urged him forward. The fans were great, but they were a bit too loud for his liking. It was distracting – and surely not just to him, either. He couldn’t hear anything anyone would try to say to him.

He didn’t even notice the swarm of fans that broke through the polices’ arms.

“Boys!” Mal shouted.

They were pulled back by their collars, nearly choking them, and police quickly went after the girls. It wasn’t enough, though, and girls were on them like a swarm of bees.

George felt handfuls of his suit be grabbed in frantic fists. He might have felt a seam give way or his jacket rip. He wasn’t sure if his clothes were still in one piece. In the buzz of bright colored dressed and hair, he saw Mal pull one girl off Ringo, only to be replaced by two others.

Police mixed in with them and held the girls down. They wrestled them back to the lines and away from the beloved band. Elbows were shoved into George’s ribs, and nails scratched at his arms. He pushed gently, not wanting to hurt anyone.

Slowly, the girls disappeared from his immediate line of sight. He looked around for the others and found them all still alive behind him, looking a bit miffed and shaken. John was fixing his hair, Ringo was cowering behind Mal, and Paul was staring back at him, his doe eyes filled with concern and silent questioning.

They swallowed and continued to stare at one another. Suddenly, Paul’s eyes grew wide, and he pointed past George. His other hand reached out for Mal.

George turned around and was immediately face-to-face with a woman, holding a small child close to her chest. All the police were gone, trying to shove the younger girls back behind the lines.

“Please,” the woman said.

She looked like she should have been young but had messy, white hair and a few wrinkles. Her eyes were filled with tears. She looked hysterical.

“Please,” she repeated. Then, she smiled and held out her child. It was grey and perhaps too small. Its face was bloated and the eyes were closed. Hopefully only sleeping. It was a pathetic mockery of a baby. “Can you help her?”

“Mal!” George tried to scream.

The world seemed to be silent. No one was daring to make a move towards the woman, and George couldn’t hear anything but her pleas. She held the baby closer to him. It brushed against his chest. He stopped breathing at the contact.

“Please, just touch her –”

Mal appeared and put his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her back gently. She jerked in his touch.

“Please!” she screamed. “Please! If you touch her, she might get better! I’ve tried everything!”

A police officer took her to the side and soon her cries were drowned out by the screams of the fans that returned to George’s ears.

“Come along,” Mal said.

He put a hand to George’s back and began leading him to the car once again.

* * *

George curled up in the window seat, watching the fans crowd around the hotel. There were so many teenagers – healthy teenagers, eager to scream their lungs out in the chilled air.

He closed his heavy eyes but opened them quickly when he saw the sickly child again. The rest of the group had taken a nap after they got back to the hotel, and he wanted to do the same. He wanted to forget that morning and go back home.

“Hey, George?” Paul walked to his side. “We’re getting room service in a few minutes, what do you want?”

“’M not hungry.”

“You’re not hungry? You’ve gotta be. We’re all starved.”

George didn’t respond. Paul sighed and sat with him.

“Are you still shaken up from that crazy lady?” he asked.

“She wasn’t crazy,” George mumbled. “She was desperate.”

“She was scary… George, you know why Mal and Brian and Neil keep us away from those people. They can get dangerous.”

“What was she gonna do?”

“It’s just not her, it’s the type of people, y'know? I get you want to help people –”

“The baby’s gonna die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It looked… dead already. The woman said she’s tried everything.”

“There’s always miracles.”

“We were supposed to be the miracle! We’re supposed to be gods, Paul. That’s what everyone thinks.”

Paul looked down. George looked back out the window. The others could be heard from the other side of the suite, joking and laughing.

“I know what you mean,” Paul said finally. “We’re not gods or angels or any of the shit people make us out to be –  _want_ us to be. But I don’t think that’s the only thing that’s bothering you.”

George shook his head. “It didn’t look like a baby.”

His voice broke. His chest felt heavy. Paul swallowed hard and inched his hand closer to George’s.

“It was grey. I don’t think it had enough hair. It was too small, and its face was swollen. Babies aren’t supposed to look like that, Paul. It was fucking dying. It was scary. It didn’t look human.”

The commotion on the other side of the suite was dying down. No one spoke anymore and tried making as little sound as possible.

“I know,” Paul said. He balled his hands into fists. “When me mam was sick… she looked different. I wanted everyone to try to make her look normal again. I didn’t want to see her –” Paul took a breath and a second to compose himself. “You have to put the baby out of your mind. You have to accept that you can’t change anything. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Because it’s unfair the baby is sick?”

George nodded. “How can you accept that with your mother?”

Paul shrugged. “I had a lot of long talks like this with me dad… Are you tired?”

George nodded again.

“I’ll take a kip with you, and we can eat later.”

Paul led George to their bedroom where they stretched out together. George curled up on his side, facing Paul. Paul laid on his back, ankles crossed, hands folded across his middle.

"Try not to think about it before you fall asleep,” he said. “That’s what me dad would always say. Say a prayer, but don’t think about it before you close your eyes.”

“What else am I supposed to think about?”

“The new album? A new riff? Brigitte Bardot? Doesn’t matter.”

“Pattie,” George mumbled.

“Yeah.” Paul smiled. “Pattie.”

His eyes focused on the ceiling. George looked at his gentle profile. His face was made of soft curves and milky skin. His cherub cheeks, round with leftover youthful chub. His eyelashes, resting against them when he closed his eyes.

“Goodnight,” Paul said.

“Goodnight,” George replied.

He closed his eyes. The boys drifted off to sleep, unhaunted.


	3. Part 3: Ringo

Paul pushed Ringo up the stairs, urging him to walk with him. One arm was around Ringo's waist and the other held onto the arm draped around his neck.

"Come on," Paul encouraged. "We're almost there. Few more steps. Come on."

Ringo mumbled gibberish in his heavy scouse accent.

"I don't speak zombie," Paul said.

He panted. Ringo was a lot heavier than he looked. He was a dead, drunk weight on Paul's side, hanging there nearly unconscious. His tiny body apparently carried more weight than it appeared.

"C'mon, Ritchie just make it to the bed now."

He pushed the bedroom door open with his foot and wrestled Ringo to the bed. His body only moved when Paul was manhandling his limbs. Ringo made a little gagging sound deep in his throat and his head lolled to the side as if he were trying to lean over the side of the bed.

"Christ. Don't throw up yet," Paul said, shoving Ringo's head over the side of the bed for him.

He ran to the bathroom.

"Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up."

Paul grabbed the small trash bin and ran back through the hall in record time. The couple of years spent being chased by girls paid off, and a few seconds later he threw himself to the ground by Ringo's head.

"Don't throw up. God, please, don't."

He slid the bin under Ringo's head. The older man was unresponsive, completely passed out.

"Thank god," Paul breathed.

He leaned against the bed, looking to Ringo. His sandy moptop fell over his face, covering his open mouth and flushed cheeks. A little drool spilled from his mouth accompanied by soft snoring.

Paul laughed. George and John were still downstairs, getting as wasted as Ringo. If they wanted to do this again, they would have to do it at someone else's house. Paul wasn't putting up cleaning up three drunk people again.

"I hate you lot."

He reached out and stroked a lock of Ringo's hair out of his eyes. It fell right back.

"I bet George and John are in your state by now," Paul said, looking to the drummer. "They can stay down there. Carrying you up was enough. If they wanted to get that smashed, they should have gotten comfortable first. I'm not taking care of you lads anymore…"

Ringo didn't answer, as expected. Paul slid his hand over his forehead. He ran his fingers through the soft locks and brushed them back from his face.

"But here you are all cute," Paul (and his own alcohol consumption) said. "I'd take care of you."

He dropped his hand in his lap. He stared at the ceiling. The bland white paint seemed to spin, making him dizzy and forcing him to keep a hand on the trash can initially meant for Ringo.

"I'm too drunk," he mumbled.

He considered crawling into bed and curling up with Ringo, but then his eyes were closing, and his muscles weren't working. He tried lifting himself off the floor. He'd count to 10 and would get up.

_1, 2, 3_

He could hear Ringo's breathing. It was soothing. Like waves crashing against a shore. Like the water of the river back home being forced against the cement barriers at the docks.

_4, 5, 6_

He could faintly hear George and John downstairs. Their chatter made the house feel full. It took up space - not suffocating, but like an embrace.

_7, 8, 9_

He briefly considered calling Cynthia or making John do so. She probably knew what they were all up to. She had seen their mischievous smirks before they left for Paul's home. They had watched how she rolled her eyes, baby on her hip, and told them to shoo.

John left after pressing two kisses on two cheeks.

_10_

Paul was drooling, fast asleep.


End file.
